


Imago Dei

by theorchardofbones



Series: Blood & Mercury [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Android!Prompto, Androids, Artificial Intelligence, Existentialism, Gen, Mankind's Hubris, Questions About Humanity & Self, Slow Burn, the oven's not even lit, we're still defrosting the roast
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-11 09:17:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12932217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: In a world where androids and automata improve the quality of life of those who can afford them, slick corporations race to create the ultimate synthetic human.It seems Daedalus Corp may have found the winning formula with their soon-to-be announced Realer Than Real line — a secret they have thus far kept hush-hush.In Insomnia, Prince Noctis grapples with the decision to deactivate his personal QuickSilver companion model: a simplistic mechanical unit that for the past six years has served as both friend and confidant.





	1. Clockwork Companion

**Author's Note:**

> _He has delivered us from the power of darkness and conveyed us into the kingdom of the Son of His love, in whom we have our redemption, the forgiveness of our sins; who is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation._ — Colossians 1:13–15

On the eve of the anniversary of the birth of Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, Prompto Argentum finds himself worried.

It’s Noct’s twentieth birthday tomorrow — the prince should be excited. That whole _coming of age_ thing is a pretty big deal, even when you’re royalty. Yet the last time they saw each other Noct had been subdued, barely interested in spending time with Prompto, and that always spells bad news.

They’re having a private dinner together tonight, at least. It might give them a chance to finally speak candidly, without the usual retinue in the way.

First, though — first, Prompto’s going shopping for a birthday gift.

It had been Ignis’s idea, and he had been all too pleased to go along. For whatever reason, every time he plans to head out to buy a gift, he forgets, or he doesn’t have time. He’s getting more and more scatterbrained lately.

Prompto glances himself over in the mirror with a sigh. His clothes are starting to get so shabby — he really needs to pick out some new threads. His best friend is coming of age; meanwhile Prompto still dresses like a teenager at a punk concert.

He knows if he opens his closet he’ll just find more of the same, so he puts it out of his head and grabs his camera before heading out.

Ignis’s voice drifts out to him as he heads for the foyer of the Citadel; the royal advisor is arguing with somebody. He knows he shouldn’t eavesdrop, yet even as the thought crosses his mind he finds himself slowing, lightening his footsteps to make less noise.

‘It’s _sick_ , Iggy. It’s just a toy.’

It’s Gladiolus — Noct’s shield, and one of his few close companions along with Prompto and Ignis. He sounds like he’s within a hair’s breadth of snapping; Prompto has rarely heard him so angry.

‘I’m fully aware of your thoughts on the matter,’ Ignis retorts, ‘and on _him._ I fail to see how it’s your concern — it won’t matter after tonight.’

Prompto hears Gladiolus heave an impatient sigh, and he can picture the man’s expression clearly: his dark brows pulled low in a frown, his lips pursed.

Prompto gave up on trying to befriend Gladiolus a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t had plenty of occasions to get to know the guy. His moods have a tendency to be volatile, so Prompto tries to steer clear of him whenever there’s tension in the air.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Gladiolus snaps. ‘Because it sure seems like you don’t.’

Brisk, heavy footsteps thunder across the polished floor of the foyer; Prompto starts, his heart racing as he sets off at a slow place once more.

As Gladiolus passes, Prompto tries to give a companionable wave; Gladiolus doesn’t even look at him.

Ignis waits by the door in what passes for casual attire for him — a pinstripe grey shirt with the sleeves elegantly rolled just below the elbows, and a pair of pressed slacks.

He doesn’t see Prompto as he approaches; the royal advisor has his face turned away, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, and it’s only once Prompto gets within a few feet that he looks up.

‘Ah,’ Ignis says, with a reasonable impression of a cheery smile. ‘Prompto. Are you ready for our excursion?’

‘Ready to shop until I drop,’ Prompto says, making guns of his fingers.

Usually when Prompto leaves the Citadel, it’s with Noct, which means they go by car; today, he and Ignis are walking. It’s a rare treat, and he’s giddy with excitement as they take the pedestrian entrance out of the Citadel’s grounds — practically bouncing as he walks.

‘Where to first?’ he asks.

Ignis pauses and turns to him; he seems thoughtful for a moment.

‘I thought you might choose,’ he says eventually. ‘Anywhere our legs can take us.’

Prompto glances around, suddenly spoilt for choice. He’s never had to decide where he and Noct were headed before; the prince usually just brought him to the arcade. He can barely think for all the choices Insomnia offers.

He remembers something — a crowded, colourful street full of trendy stores, that he and Noct had once visited when they were younger.

‘The Promenade?’ he suggests. He thinks that’s the name.

With a little smile, Ignis nods.

‘We’ll need to take the subway,’ he says. ‘Follow me.’

Prompto tags along at Ignis’s side, chattering brightly on the way. He can barely even remember what he had overhead of Ignis’s argument — or what it was about it that had made him feel so uneasy. He’s already thinking about all the places he can look to find the perfect gift for Noct, and offering Ignis suggestions for something to buy, too.

At the turnstiles in the subway, Ignis swipes his card over the sensor and slips through. With a jolt, Prompto realises he doesn’t have a card — but then Ignis beckons him onward and he slips through uninhibited.

This is one of the more upmarket subway stations, although it’s still overcrowded. He tries to stay in Ignis’s wake as he slips through the press of bodies; a man in a business suit bumps Prompto’s shoulder as he goes, and when Prompto turns to apologise the man has a clear look of disdain on his face.

He turns, ready to catch up, but Ignis is gone — lost in the flood of bodies moving this way and that, intent on their destinations.

‘Ignis?’ he says and, when panic starts to set in, louder: ‘Ignis!’

He’s shorter than most, struggling to see past people’s heads; he stands up on tiptoes and darts about, looking into the faces of strangers desperate to find somebody he might recognise.

He doesn’t know his way back to the Citadel; doesn’t know Ignis’s number — doesn’t even have a phone to call anybody for help. He can feel panic starting to well up within him as he twirls around and around, desperate for somebody, _anybody_ , to help him.

‘Prompto!’

Ignis is there, rushing towards him; he rests his hands on Prompto’s shoulders, looking him over as though checking for injuries.

‘It’s all right,’ he says, his voice soothing and soft. ‘I’ve found you.’

Prompto feels foolish. Ignis had only been a few feet away; to devolve so quickly into a panic had been decidedly _uncool._

‘Come now,’ Ignis says. ‘Let’s go.’

This time, he takes Prompto’s hand and leads him through the crowd.

Insomnia’s public transit runs like clockwork, and they don’t have to wait long for the train that will take them to their destination. It’s only a handful of stops away but Prompto finds himself impatiently checking the board all the while once they depart, watching the routemap light up as they pass each station.

The other passengers give them a wide berth, although Prompto hardly notices. At least it means he has lots of legroom.

The Promenade is one of Insomnia’s more famous locations, with everything from sprawling department stores to flashy fashion boutiques. Stepping out onto street level from the subway, it would be so easy to get lost in the flood of people shopping and browsing, if not for Ignis tightly holding onto his hand.

‘Where to first?’ Ignis says.

He seems a little anxious, somehow. Prompto thinks to ask what’s on his mind, but Ignis quickly reassembles his expression into a neutral smile.

For a moment, Prompto just around the avenue, taking in all the different places they can go. He almost misses the music store, but then he double-takes back to it and points excitedly, hopping on the balls of his feet.

‘There!’ he says.

Ignis happily obliges, leading Prompto by the hand.

Sleepless Records is easily missed — just a doorway with a vinyl sign hanging over it. A narrow corridor leads them forward, with a set of stairs taking them deep below the building, turning at a sharp one-eighty angle, and bringing them into a basement. Whatever the place’s original function, it’s packed to the brim with music paraphernalia and Prompto can only look around in awe.

‘Did you have anything in mind?’ Ignis prompts gently, as they walk into the space.

Prompto scans the signs hanging from the ceiling, shaped like street signs, listing the different genres on offer. He finds the one for ‘Metal/Other’ and follows it as Ignis trails along behind. He could spend hours in this place, if he had the time — and the money. He makes a mental note to tell Noct about it when they meet up later.

He checks under the _L_ tab first, fingers flipping swiftly through the records on offer, but he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. He checks under _R_ for good measure, but there’s only older stuff.

‘Any luck?’ Ignis asks at his elbow.

Prompto shakes his head.

‘Maybe it isn’t out yet,’ he says.

‘Why don’t you ask?’ Ignis suggests.

Together, they venture up to the counter in the corner of the space where a woman with multiple facial piercings sits scrolling idly on a laptop computer. When they step up, she takes her time turning her attention from whatever she’s doing; she flicks one indifferent glance at Prompto and turns to Ignis.

‘Yeah?’ she says.

She couldn’t sound more bored if she tried. Maybe that’s the point.

Ignis coughs delicately into his hand.

‘I’m looking for something by La Rinascita,’ Prompto says, stretching up a little taller so that she can see him properly over the counter. ‘I couldn’t find it.’

‘Metal section,’ she says, eyes returning to her laptop. ‘Under R.’

‘Um.’

Prompto feels like he’s bothering her, but with a gentle nudge from Ignis he tries again.

‘They have a new record out,’ he says haltingly. ‘Culp… Culpa-something?’

‘Culpandus?’ the woman says, without looking out. ‘You can’t get it any more.’

Prompto’s momentarily silenced. He remembers Noct talking about it just recently.

‘But, uh,’ he says, stammering a little. ‘That hasn’t been out all that long… has it?’

With a beleaguered sigh, the woman closes the lid of her laptop and looks him in the eyes for the first time. When she speaks to him, she does so as she would a small child or a puppy.

‘It came out a year ago,’ she says. ‘And it was a limited pressing. You’re out of luck.’

Prompto can feel himself getting upset again, like at the subway station.

‘A year?’ he says, his lip trembling. ‘But— But I—’

‘Listen,’ she says, turning to Ignis. ‘I don’t know what’s going on here, but I think you need to get your unit checked out _._ ’

Prompto expects Ignis to argue on his behalf, but he doesn’t; instead he gives a nod and gently places a hand on Prompto’s back.

‘I understand,’ Ignis says. ‘Thank you for your time.’

Ignis’s hand doesn’t drop all the way back out of the store, until they’re on street level once more.

‘What did she mean?’ Prompto says, turning to him. ‘What _unit_ —’

Ignis silences him with a kind smile.

‘Never mind that,’ he says cheerily. ‘Let’s look somewhere else, shall we?’

Swallowing, Prompto nods.

Her words follow him as they walk, as Ignis leads him into a fashion store not too far from where they stand. He’s still thinking about it while Ignis points out t-shirts that he thinks Noct might like.

Soon, he forgets about it entirely and dives into searching for something for Noct in earnest.

* * *

Prompto has just enough time to get his gifts wrapped and wash up before he has to go to meet the prince. He dithers yet again about what to wear, and he’s struggling out of a t-shirt when a knock comes at the door.

He thinks maybe it’s Noct, coming to get him early, but when he hurries to the door with his shirt half-off and pulls it open, it’s Ignis.

‘Oh!’ he says, yanking his shirt straight self-consciously. ‘Iggy! Hey!’

Ignis smiles as he extends his hand, proffering a shopping bag to Prompto.

‘Is this for Noct too?’ Prompto asks, hooking his fingers through the strings of it. ‘Did I forget it?’

Ignis’s lips press together for a moment. Slowly, he shakes his head.

‘I know it’s Noct’s birthday tomorrow,’ he says, ‘but… Why don’t you open it?’

Prompto is bemused, but he shoves his hand into the bag nevertheless. When he withdraws it, there’s a black tank top with a stylised chocobo on the front, wearing shades and a leather jacket.

‘Is this for me?’ he asks.

Ignis nods. He looks as if he might say something, but before he can, Prompto practically jumps at him and grips him in a hug. It takes a moment for Ignis to respond, but when he does he wraps his arms tightly around Prompto. It feels like he might never let go.

He does eventually, of course, and he seems flustered as he takes a step back, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

‘It’s just something small,’ Ignis says. ‘I saw it and thought you might like it.’

It’s a little silly and cute, but — well, that’s the point, isn’t it? Prompto’s always been a kid at heart.

‘I love it,’ he says. ‘Seriously, Iggy — thank you so much. I wish I got you something, though...’

‘Not at all,’ Ignis says with a sniff. ‘Friends get each other gifts all the time to show that they care. It doesn’t mean they expect something in return.’

Prompto had been looking down at the shirt in his hands; at the mention of the word _friends_ he lifts his glance to look at Ignis with an open mouth.

‘Friends?’ he echoes. He hadn’t realised Ignis even thought of him that way. ‘You mean that?’

There’s a matter-of-fact nod from Ignis, after which he dutifully takes the empty shopping bag from Prompto’s hands and neatly folds it.

‘I’ll leave you in peace,’ he says. ‘I wish you both a lovely evening.’

Prompto barely waits for Ignis to leave before he tugs off his own shirt and slips into the new one. With an appraising glance at the mirror, he quickly fixes his hair until he’s happy, grabs Noct’s gifts and sets off out of his room.

He finds his way through the Citadel by muscle memory, headed for Noct’s chambers. As always, there are guards situated all about the place but they barely spare him a glance as he goes. He guesses he’s become such a permanent fixture that they don’t consider him a threat — although he can’t ever remember talking to any of them.

The door is already open when he gets there; when he lets himself in, he finds the table laid out in the middle of the living area with two places set. Dutifully, he sets the pile of gifts down at the edge of the table around and sets off in search of his friend.

He hears Noct, rather than sees him — or more accurately he hears the sounds of the video game he’s playing. Prompto recognises the high-pitched beeps and trills of the platformer they used to play whenever Noct came back from school; with a smile, he realises they haven’t played together in years.

He can’t help but notice, as he follows the noises, that the place seems uncannily empty. His eyes rove the walls seeking out the usual posters and assortments of photographs, but they’re bare.

He’s frowning as he gets to Noct’s room, but it quickly shifts into a smile when he sees his friend. The prince sits cross-legged on the floor in front of his bed — his bed, which Prompto notices, is neatly made for the first time probably ever.

‘You’re playing Dungeon Crawler?’ he asks, as he steps inside.

Noct shrugs; doesn’t even look up from the screen where it bathes his face in an unnatural glow.

‘Nothing else to play,’ he replies flatly. ‘All my other games are at the apartment.’

‘The… apartment?’ Prompto says, shaking his head in confusion.

He sees Noct freeze for just a moment. The _Game Over_ sound rings out from the TV and the screen fades to black, casting the prince’s face in darkness.

‘Uh, nothing,’ Noct says quickly. ‘You ready?’

When Prompto nods in response, he quickly scrambles and shuts off the console and TV before getting to his feet.

Prompto trails behind as Noct leads the way, ruffling a hand through his dark hair as he goes. While Prompto takes his seat, he can hear Noct speaking on a phone behind him, a little too softly for him to pick out.

‘Do you wanna open your gifts?’ Prompto says excitedly as Noct sits down across from him.

Noct shrugs, his eyes down on the place setting in front of him.

‘It’s cool,’ he mutters. ‘I’ll open ‘em tomorrow.’

Prompto sighs and flops back in his seat, glancing around. He had kind of hoped Noct would open his presents so they’d have something to talk about, but here they are now in a silence that feels entirely too awkward.

Idly, he drums his hands on his thighs under the table and bops his head in time to the rhythm.

‘Would you stop that?’ Noct says suddenly.

Prompto freezes and lets his hands come to rest on his lap.

‘Sorry,’ he says, with a meek smile.

There’s another bout of silence, but at least this one is soon broken by the kitchen staff scurrying in and filling the table with dishes.

‘Would you like us to have these left with the others, Highness?’ one of them says, gesturing to Prompto’s gifts.

Noct shakes his head and gives a flick of his hand.

He’s being uncharacteristically brisk — it’s not like him to be so dismissive of Citadel staff. They don’t seem to mind, however, as they never do; they’re quiet and efficient as they serve up the meal, and they bow before leaving just as swiftly as they arrived.

The room seems too empty now, too quiet. Prompto picks up one of the many tiny forks alongside his plate and plays his thumb absently over the intricate inlay on the metal of the handle.

‘Iggy brought me shopping,’ he says brightly. ‘It was really nice.’

Noct stares down at his plate just as he had when it was still empty.

‘Iggy,’ he echoes flatly. ‘Huh.’

‘Yeah,’ Prompto says. ‘He got me this shirt, too. I felt bad ‘cause I didn’t even think to grab something for him.’

When he glances up at Noct, he finally has his friend’s full attention.

He should be glad, he realises, but there’s something unsettling about Noct’s stare. Prompto wilts a little under it until he finds himself looking away.

‘He got that for you?’ Noct says. ‘Why?’

Prompto shrugs. What’s with the questions?

‘I don’t know,’ he mumbles. ‘Guess he was just being nice.’

He feels like he’s been glowering down at his lap for hours when he finally hears the clink of metal against porcelain; from the corner of his eye he can see Noct pushing his food around on his plate, half-hearted.

This isn’t how Prompto expected this to go. _This isn’t what he wanted._

‘Fuck this,’ he hears Noct mutter under his breath.

With a clatter, Noct sets his fork down on his plate. His chair screeches as he pushes it back and stands.

‘You’ve still got games in your room, right?’ Noct says.

There’s something frantic about him; he doesn’t wait for an answer as he grabs Prompto’s wrist and tugs him to his feet. They leave the table, food and all, and Prompto allows the prince to drag him along at an urgent pace through the halls of the Citadel. This time, when they pass guards by, they watch with interest.

‘What are we doing?’ Prompto asks, as Noct lets himself into his room.

The prince is silent as he hunts through Prompto’s modest collection of games; he discards them as he goes, tossing them onto the floor, and Prompto rushes over to stop him.

‘Hey!’ he protests.

‘There’s nothing _here,_ ’ Noct complains, throwing his hands up in exasperation. ‘Why don’t you _have_ anything?’

Prompto opens his mouth to argue, but Noct merely gets to his feet and storms about the place, leaving a trail of destruction as he goes. Nothing is safe as he yanks things off the dresser, rifles through drawers, flings open the doors of his closet.

‘None of this is _real_ ,’ he growls, gesturing wildly about himself.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Prompto says, barely able to get his voice out.

Prompto flinches as Noct tears one of the photos from the adhesive holding it to the mirror; he thunders over and shoves the picture in Prompto’s face, in front of his eyes.

‘This,’ Noct blurts. ‘It’s all _fake._ ’

When Prompto looks at the picture, he can’t see what Noct means. It’s just a shot of them together at the park when they were younger, both grinning madly.

‘Dude,’ he says. ‘What’s going on?’

Noct lets the photo drop. In its place is his face, squared up with Prompto’s, and there’s a snarl contorting his lips.

‘Don’t you _see_ anything?’ he says, prodding Prompto hard in the chest. ‘You were supposed to be top of the line. You’re too _stupid_ to realise you’re not even real.’

He shoves Prompto then, hard, and Prompto staggers back. He’d fall if not for the bed behind him; as it is, he stumbles into it and barely catches himself.

There’s someone hammering at the door — it bursts open without either of them saying anything. Gladiolus is there, Ignis at his side, and Prompto watches dumbly as Gladiolus runs to check on Noct.

The prince is all right, of course; Prompto would never lay a hand on him. That doesn’t stop the future king’s shield eyeing him up angrily.

‘Noct,’ Ignis says gently. ‘Perhaps we should talk about this.’

When Ignis stretches out a hand to touch his arm, Noct throws it off and Prompto catches sight of his face. It’s bright red, his eyes swollen from crying.

‘Don’t,’ Noct blurts. ‘Don’t baby me.’

He crosses the room with short, angry strides and vanishes out of the door. After exchanging glances with Ignis, Gladiolus hurries out after him, leaving Ignis and Prompto alone.

‘Did I do something wrong?’ Prompto murmurs. ‘What did I do wrong?’

Ignis shakes his head; he moves and sits at Prompto’s side, touching his hand gently.

‘Nothing, Prompto,’ he says softly. ‘It’s time for you to sleep. This will all be better in the morning.’

Prompto hadn’t thought he was tired; now that he thinks of it, his eyes are so heavy. He crawls up the bed and stretches out on top of the covers.

‘Do you think I should try to talk to him?’ he asks, peeking down at Ignis where he sits at the edge of the bed, his back in silhouette against the lights outside the open door.

‘Sleep, Prompto,’ Ignis says.

With a sigh, Prompto closes his eyes and lets the darkness overcome him.


	2. Goodbye

Prompto’s place setting is a mockery of the real thing — like a little girl’s teddy bear tea party. The staff still haven’t been to clear the table up, so the empty dish and knife and fork still sit there, untouched.

Prompto hadn’t even realised. He never does.

It’s getting late now, and come morning Noctis will have to make his usual birthday address to the public. It’s a stupid tradition as it is, made only worse by his dark mood. He doesn’t even want to  _ think _ about having to pretend to be happy in front of a crowd of expectant faces: retainers, council members and press alike.

The prince sighs and pushes his hair out of his face, scrubbing at his eyes. He knows he should get an early night, if only because Iggy’s sure to have him up bright and early to run through the itinerary, but his mind won’t quieten down.

He keeps thinking of Prompto — that stupid, dull look on his shiny doll face. He really hadn’t understood it, any of it. Somehow that made it so much worse.

He’ll have to go back to deactivate Promp— the  _ unit. _ He could do it tonight, but he can’t bear the thought of going back there to the little suite he insisted they set out for his companion all those years ago, small and poky but perfectly sized for a doll shaped like a boy.

A knock comes at the door: soft but insistent. He knows he could just keep quiet and whoever it is would go away, but that’s just delaying the inevitable.

With a sigh, he clears his throat and calls out.

‘Come in.’

He’s not even surprised when Ignis steps through. He’d told Gladiolus that he wanted to be left alone, but Iggy’s never been one to listen.

‘Shall I have the table cleared?’ Ignis says gently, his eyes taking in the dishes set out across the surface of it.

Noctis shrugs noncommittally. It’ll all vanish tomorrow anyway, when he’s out at his birthday address. What’s the point?

Ignis closes the door behind him and walks in neat strides across the room, his polished shoes clicking on the parquet. He stops at the table, by the bundle of presents, and picks the smallest one up from the very top.

‘You should open these,’ he says quietly. ‘Prompto put a lot of thought into them.’

Noctis shoots a dark glance up at his friend.

‘Yeah?’ he counters. ‘Like you put thought into that shirt you got ‘im?’

He watches Ignis’s lips thin. They both know he’s trying to push Iggy’s buttons — Noctis isn’t even sure  _ why. _ It still stings, somehow, that his friend took Prompto out today. That he bought him a gift, knowing full well what Noctis has to do.

He expects Ignis to retaliate with some cutting remark. Instead, Noctis sees him move and pull out the chair at the side of the table opposite where Prompto had sat, and lower himself into the seat.

‘Would you like to talk?’ he asks.

‘About what?’ Noctis retorts.

Ignis has known him for too long for such behaviour to cut, but still there’s a look of resignation in his eyes as he regards the prince levelly, over steepled hands.

‘You’re upset,’ Ignis says. ‘That’s normal.’

Noctis shrugs and stares glumly down at the dishes in front of him, now cold and congealed.

‘Is it?’ he says. ‘I was supposed to… to  _ decommission  _ him years ago. I couldn’t even do it then.’

A long silence passes between them, and he has the distinct impression that Iggy’s reading him. It’s a part of the guy’s job, after all — to anticipate his prince’s needs; his princes  _ moods. _

‘It’s  _ natural, _ ’ Ignis says, ‘to be upset. For better or worse, Prompto has been a companion to you for years now. You’ve shared things with him that you’ve not been able to confide in anyone else, and he’s never judged you or spoken harshly to you for it.’

Even an hour earlier, when Noctis had gone on his tirade, Prompto hadn’t been angry; he’d seemed upset. Worried, even. Afraid that he’d done something to displease his friend.

Noctis feels nausea roil through him, stinging the back of his throat.

‘We can do it together,’ Ignis says calmly. He extends a hand, resting it on Noctis’s shoulder; the gentle pressure is comforting. ‘You don’t even have to do it now. It can wait, until you’re ready.’

Noctis swallows.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I… I gotta do it now. A grown man can’t keep playing with dolls. Not when he’s the prince.’

He can feel bitterness creeping into his tone; he cuts off promptly before it can overwhelm him.

‘Very well.’

There’s a whisper of fabric as Ignis rises to his feet. He waits there, dutifully, with his hands clasped in front of him.

With a reluctant sigh, Noctis pushes himself up from his chair and marches on ahead, and the sounds of Ignis’s footsteps follow him as he ventures out into the hallway.

* * *

Prompto — the unit, Noctis tells himself, as if it’ll make this easier somehow — is lying there, as though asleep.

Years ago, Noctis gave enough of a cursory browse of the manual that accompanied his shiny new automated friend to recall something about units like him not  _ sleeping _ but going into standby: a low-power mode, intended to give the inner workings time to cool off. There’s another, deeper standby mode that powers the unit off entirely, during which it has no sense of the passage of time.

He’s been putting Prompto into it more and more lately, sometimes for months at a time.

What Noctis has to do now is different. He’s not just powering it off; he’s disabling it completely. Once the CPU is reverted to factory settings and the power core is removed, there’ll be no more Prompto. Just a blank, lifeless doll, like so many of the QuickSilver companion models that have been decommissioned over the years.

He hadn’t even been sure if he  _ could _ deactivate the unit when it first came up; he certainly didn’t remember how to, and the unit was so old that he couldn’t find any e-manuals when he checked the company’s website.

Iggy had come through, of course. Had whipped out the original manual as thought from the ether, the paper discoloured from age but largely pristine.

‘Do I need to power him on again?’ Noctis says bleakly, with a quick glance at Prompto where he lies on the bed, his chest not even rising and falling in simulation of sleep. ‘To… To deactivate him?’

Ignis is silent while he pores over the instructions. He doesn’t so much as curl the corners of the pages as he turns them, fastidious as ever.

‘That shouldn’t be necessary,’ he says. ‘You can boot into administrator mode while… it is still on standby.’

Noctis chews his lip. When he thinks about just pulling the cord like that, never hearing Prompto’s odd, automated voice or seeing his friendly eyes light up again, he’s not so sure he can do it. 

‘Could we…’ he says tentatively, tapering off.

Ignis glances up at him from the manual, peering at him over the frames of his glasses. Noctis feels distinctly under scrutiny, letting feelings show that are entirely unbefitting of a future king. It’s just Iggy, he knows, but…

He clears his throat and starts over.

‘Could we boot him up again?’ he asks. ‘Just for a minute.’

Ignis blinks and studies him for a moment. Without any comment, he nods.

Even these rudimentary models, designed long before the recent leaps in innovation in the automata industry, have all the key features of their newer counterparts. In the early days, the user would have to open up the back panel and manually input a series of codes to put the unit to sleep. Now, it’s a matter of issuing verbal commands:  _ Sleep. Wake up. Clean. Be silent. _

Ignis moves to the side of the bed where Prompto lies on his side; he ducks low beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder as if he might just gently rouse him from his slumber.

Instead, he moves closer and says, clearly, ‘Wake up, Prompto.’

It’s almost realistic, the way he stirs, blinking his red eyes and glancing around. He sits up, stretching his arms out, and as soon as he sees that Ignis and Noctis are there, he perks up.

‘Good morning,’ he says brightly. ‘Wait… Is it morning?’

Ignis sighs and rises to his feet, flicking a glance at Noctis.

‘Noct wanted to speak with you, if that’s all right,’ Ignis says. ‘I’ll leave you two alone.’

He nods at Noctis as he passes, taking the time to close the door as he goes.

Noctis wonders if it was a mistake waking Prompto up. At least when he had been on standby, it hadn’t felt like quite so much of a betrayal. Now, looking at that permanently smiling face again, he’s not even sure if he can do it.

No. He has to. It’s the only way.

‘Hey, Prom,’ he says, forcing himself to smile as he takes a seat at the edge of the bed. ‘How you feeling?’

Prompto shrugs. Mechanical or not, his mannerisms are almost perfect.

Sometimes, Noctis hears the Citadel staff talking in murmurs about how lifelike he is — about how he’s picked up some of the prince’s quirks along the way. About how it’s  _ unnatural _ to have a thing like him still wandering around, acting as though he were human.

‘Okay, I guess,’ Prompto says. ‘Are you… Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong?’

Noctis feels a lump form in his throat. This definitely isn’t making things any easier.

‘No,’ he says gently. ‘I treated you badly and that… was on me. I’m sorry, Prom.’

He stretches a hand out and rests it on Prompto’s where it sits on top of the blanket. It had weirded him out at first — the mechanical fingers, his knuckles and wrists so reminiscent of a ball-joint doll. Now he barely bats an eye at it any more.

‘We still cool?’ he says. ‘Still friends?’

Prompto nods hurriedly, like Noctis had known he would. He’s  _ programmed _ to be agreeable, not that it makes it feel any less real.

‘Still friends,’ he says, clasping Noctis’s hands. ‘So. Did you open your gifts yet?’

Noctis sighs and glances toward the door. In his little tantrum, he had intended on throwing them out, or maybe giving them to charity. He guesses it can’t hurt to see what they are, first.

‘We can go open ‘em now,’ he says. ‘If you want.’

They walk hand in hand through the Citadel as they have so many times before; Noctis can’t help but notice the way guards won’t meet Prompto’s eye, like he unsettles them.

At Noctis’s apartments, Prompto drags him to the table and lets go of his hand, bouncing excitedly as he picks the wrapped packages up and sorts through them. He hands a small square one to Noctis first.

‘Open it!’ he says. Even though his face is stuck in that same fixed smile, Noctis knows he’d be wearing a grin right now if he could.

The wrapping paper has a recurring chocobo pattern all over it, and Noctis feels a pang as he realises Prompto probably picked it out himself. There’s no way he could have wrapped it using his own hands, though — Iggy must have helped.

Noctis hooks a finger under a loose corner of wrapping paper and slips it through the tape, splitting it open. The paper tears a little as he goes — already he can see the box art of a video game through it, but he keeps his expression neutral until he has it all the way open.

It’s a game he already has — one that’s been out for a couple years by now — but he puts on his best smile.

‘Oh geez, Prompto,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’

But Prompto’s already moved onto the next gift — something big and lumpy. When Noctis takes it from him and tears it open, it’s a hooded sweater with the logo for La Rinascita emblazoned on the back.  _ That’s _ something he doesn’t already own, at least.

Prompto’s a little shy about the last gift. It’s the smallest of the bunch, and when Noctis tears open the wrapping there’s a little black box inside. Noctis almost doesn’t want to open it; the only things that come in boxes like this are jewellery.

Prompto is looking up at him expectantly, though, and Noctis just can’t bring himself to disappoint the guy. Not now.

When he lifts the lid of the box, there are two bracelets inside, made of colourful string. There’s one of bright yellow, with an assortment of beads that spell out ‘Prompto’; the other is indigo, with beads spelling ‘Noctis’.

So they’re a little goofy, and a little childish, but when Noctis looks up at Prompto’s face, he swears there’s something earnest in his eyes — like underneath the layers of clockwork and gears, there’s a beating heart that put so much thought into such a silly little gesture.

Noctis takes Prompto’s one out and sets the box aside, taking Prompto’s wrist so that he can slip it on. He dons his own next, and the smile he gives Prompto once it’s in place is probably the most genuine he’s worn in weeks.

‘Thank you,’ he says, hugging Prompto.

He feels arms slipping around him, holding him tight. He knows that Prompto doesn’t  _ know _ what has to happen — there’s no way he could, and he has no real sense of mortality anyway — but Noctis still can’t help feeling like this is Prompto’s little way of saying goodbye.

He doesn’t want to let go, but he knows he must.

Prompto’s smiling at him obliviously when they pull apart. He’ll still wear that smile even when he goes to sleep and Ignis inputs the deactivation code.

‘Why don’t you go to your room?’ Noctis suggests. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’

With a nod, Prompto goes on ahead, leaving Noctis alone. When he’s ready, he pulls out his phone and finds Ignis’s name in the contacts, lifting the handset to his ear.

‘I’m ready,’ he says, when the call connects. ‘But… I wanna do it, okay? Just show me how.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Prom's gift is corny but just... imagine how pleased he would have been with himself when he picked those friendship bracelets out.
> 
> BRB CRYING FOREVER.


	3. Realer Than Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in the relationship tag from 'Prompto & Noctis' to 'Prompto/Noctis'.
> 
> I had intended for this fic to be gen and to keep it open to any possible future ship, but it's veering more and more toward something more than platonic, and I felt it would be best to update the tag to reflect that.

The board members are talking among themselves when she walks in; she cuts such an impressive figure that all chatter immediately ceases.

She’s dressed in sleek black clothes, her shoes painfully chic. When she steps up to the podium at the head of the room, she brushes a strand of brown hair from her eyes and smiles out at the audience in front of her.

‘When my grandfather founded Daedalus Corporation, his belief was that with the technology available to us, nobody should ever have to be alone. We’ve had automata to carry out our less savoury duties for generations now, but he was the first to truly push the boundaries of what was possible with artificial life.

‘What began with primitive units tasked with serving as companions to children, later evolved to nanny models who could provide young minds with all of the stimulation and affection that busy parents could not. Today, synthetic tutors make up forty-seven percent of teachers in classrooms across the world, and an astonishing  _ eighty percent  _ of those units come from our company.’

She has a remote in her hands; she presses a button on it and a projector fills the wall to her left with images: a young child playing in a park while an android dutifully watches; another android pushing a cart around a store collecting groceries.

‘Artificial intelligence has become an intrinsic part of our day to day life,’ she continues. ‘Perhaps you don’t make use of one of the countless custodial models available today, but I guarantee that in each one of your homes, there is an artificial intelligence. That pleasant woman’s voice answering your queries from your smartwatch? The enemies your children fight in those brutal video games? The system that monitors your home security? All artificial intelligence.

‘Anybody who knows my grandfather’s vision for this company knows he wasn’t content with a mere facsimile of intelligence — he wanted more. So do I.’

She clicks another button and the slide changes, depicting a man walking through a busy street in Gralea as an android slinks over to him, a flash of synthetic skin visible where its skirt splits across its thigh.

There’s a nervous titter of laughter around the room; she silences it with a wave of her hand.

‘By now, I’m sure it’s common knowledge to you that our most successful lines have been our pleasure models,’ she says.

She presses the button; the image changes to one of the android caressing the cheek of the man where they sit alone, in a hotel room.

‘You might be surprised to hear, however, that of a thousand clients surveyed, seventy-eight percent admitted that they use their pleasure models for simple companionship, as opposed to the more… carnal purposes that they were commissioned for.

‘The reality of it is this: one of the most basic needs for humans to thrive is social contact. Whether that comes in the form of a long-term partner, a pet, even idle conversation with a grocery store attendant — it’s a necessary part of life. You may survive without it, but you will wilt like a plant without water.’

Another press of the button, another slide. This time a face stares out at the audience, seemingly human but for the plastic texture of the skin and the too-bright eyes.

‘We are not the only ones in this race to create the perfect companion,’ she says, leaning on the podium in front of her as though speaking candidly to her audience. ‘Our competitors are getting closer and closer as each day new innovations are made. We believe we may finally have the edge.’

She's animated as she faces her audience, her eyes twinkling.

'What if I told you that by the end of the year, Daedalus Corporation could have synthetic units among your neighbours, your colleagues, your  _ friends? _ What if I told you there could be one sitting next to you right now?’

There’s a shuffling sound of movement as the board members look suspiciously at one another; she draws their attention back to her with a laugh.

‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘None of you have been replaced. But it’s more likely than you think.’

She gestures to the side, toward the door by the head of the room. It opens a moment later and a young man, attractive but unremarkable, walks in and crosses the floor to stand beside her.

‘Everyone, I would like you to meet Isaac,’ she says. ‘Say hello, Isaac.’

The man turns to the room and gives a broad smile.

‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Isaac is very special,’ she says. ‘And I’m so very excited to be able to introduce him today to announce our new Realer Than Real line. Isaac, go on ahead.’

She gestures him forward and he steps down from the stage, extending his hand to the woman sitting closest to him. His smile is warm and welcoming — charming, even.

‘I’m Isaac,’ he says. ‘What’s your name?’

* * *

It’s late by the time she gets home; hours locked in stuffy boardrooms and offices have taken their toll, and the first thing she does is pour herself a glass of wine and take a long soak in the bath.

It’s hard not to think about the day’s work when she’s been in the office all day — numbers run past her eyes when she closes them, and she can’t help playing back everything she said, every misspoken word, every stutter. At least the board lapped it up.

Once her wine is gone, she steps out of the bath, towels dry and slips into a silk robe, letting her damp hair hang loose down her back.

She’s not alone when she enters the bedroom; a young man, scarcely out of adolescence, sits on the bed. His eyes follow her as she steps into the room, drawing the screen door shut behind her.

‘All right,’ she murmurs, picking up her tablet from the dresser. ‘Let’s figure you out.’

She opens up the Daedalus app, moving to sit beside the man. He turns his head to face her, and in truth it’s a little creepy: the blank expression, the silent attentiveness. That he was custom-made, that every inch of his skin — every freckle, even the slight turn of his nose — was tailored precisely to her specifications, doesn’t lessen the impact of how  _ uncanny _ he is; if anything, it makes the effect more obvious.

This thing sitting on her bed is just as she remembers  _ him, _ and yet in so many ways he’s wrong: he doesn’t light up with that shy smile when she walks into the room, doesn’t scratch the bridge of his nose to hide his face when he’s nervous. He doesn’t do much of anything, really, other than sit and wait to be activated.

She supposes she’s been waiting, too. Waiting for some sign that she isn’t crazy for having him commissioned in the first place.

She keys in her administrator code on the app and moves to the setup function. This is much easier than her custodial model, at least, which was all panels and wires. This generation can be calibrated with the flick of a finger across the touch screen, and once he’s ready to go, there’ll be no need for the app.

She taps a manicured nail against the screen and watches as instructions fill the screen; she follows a series of prompts, inputting a few key details, and once the app tells her to, she puts the screen to sleep and sets the tablet aside. Beside her, he tilts his head toward her.

‘Hello,’ he says.

The sound of his voice after all these years sends a chill down her spine; she clutches a hand to her face, promptly standing and walking away, her back to him while she stills the thudding of her heart.

She closes her eyes, breathing slowly. When the room seems to right itself once more she turns back. He still sits there, watching her almost curiously. Like a child: absorbing every bit of new information sent his way.

‘Hello,’ she replies.

‘Thank you for choosing me to be your companion,’ he says. ‘What is your name?’

‘Therasia.’

He nods and smiles, and the way his mouth twists up at the corner is so familiar even after three decades that it almost  _ hurts. _

‘Hello, Therasia,’ he says. ‘It’s wonderful to meet you. What would you like to call me?’

She hesitates. She can’t bring herself to say the name — the name that had been his, almost thirty years ago. To call him his model name,  _ Isaac _ , seems wrong somehow, when he looks nothing like the generic face that will be plastered across billboards all over the world once the line launches.

He’s  _ him, _ yet he’s not — a pioneer in technology, and yet worth so much more than the components from which he was made.

‘Verstael,’ she says slowly. ‘Your name is Verstael.’

He nods again, resting his hands on his lap.

‘Thank you, Therasia,’ he says. ‘Would you like to begin?’

He waits silently, patiently, while she thinks — just as he’s programmed to. Once she sets the ball rolling — once his personality has been downloaded and activated — there’ll be no going back. She can deactivate him, yes, but it will never be the same.

She pushes a hand through her hair and turns away, barely taking in the city skyline visible through her window. The room seems chilly now, the silk of her robe doing little to quell the goosebumps erupting all over her skin.

She spent all day extolling the virtues of the future to her peers, converting sceptics to believers, yet she can’t even take that step herself. She wants to call herself a hypocrite, but the truth is she’s scared.

She turns back and moves once more to the bed, taking a seat beside him. With a trembling hand, she reaches out and takes his, finding it warm to the touch — indistinguishable from human flesh. She knows that if she were to cut him now, he’d bleed red, just like her. Thanks to innovations in nanotechnology, he would even heal too, with time.

‘I’m ready,’ she says quietly. ‘Let’s begin.’

He blinks twice rapidly, the subtle tell that indicates he’s downloading information. Bit by bit, he’ll take on more of his meticulously-crafted personality, until he’s just how she remembers; until he’s everything she hoped he would be.

It doesn’t take long. After a few rises and falls of his chest — breathing is not a necessary part of his function, although he and all others in his line are programmed with the reflex to add to the realism — he lifts his eyes to meet hers.

They’re the same as his once were: pale blue, the lashes so blonde they almost seem invisible. Unlike Verstael, he won’t need glasses, although she had grappled with that decision for a while.

He draws in a sharp breath, his pupils dilating so fast that the black seems to subsume the blue. His hand snatches away from her so quickly that she scarcely has time to react.

‘Who are you?’ he blurts.

‘Verstael?’ she says, reaching out a gentle hand to touch his arm. ‘It’s me, Therasia.’

When he flinches away from her it feels as though she’s been slapped. He’s not supposed to do this — not supposed to be scared of her. He’s supposed to have all the memories Verstael had, supposed to remember  _ her. _

‘What is this place?’ he says, standing up and looking around fearfully.

He wraps his arms around himself, looking down at the clothes he wears — a plain khaki t-shirt and jeans — as though they’re foreign to him. When he looks at her, it’s with the eyes of a stranger. He might wear Verstael’s face, might have his voice, but there’s somebody else within his skin.

She rises to her feet, carefully putting out a hand to steady him. She’s no threat, but she can’t say that  _ he _ isn’t.

‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘Please, just calm down.’

He watches her warily, shrinking away from her. In a heartbeat she forgets that he’s a  _ thing, _ that these reactions are all a result of endless lines of code, sent from the core in his chest to the rest of his body by electrical impulses, just like a human being.

‘Where am I?’ he says, his lip trembling. ‘Where’s Noct?’


	4. Questions

Everything is so bright, so colourful; everywhere Prompto looks there’s something new to see, like a world that had been in two dimensions has now manifested in a third.

The woman in front of him is not familiar, that much he knows — and, more importantly, there’s no sign of Noct.

Moments earlier he had been sitting with Noct on his bed. Noct had pointed out that he must be tired, that he should get some rest, and even though it had occurred to him that he had only woken up a little while earlier he had nodded his head and lain down on the bed.

And then Noct had said… Goodnight? Goodbye?

‘Pause motor function,’ the woman in front of him says. ‘Standby.  _ Shit. _ ’

None of what she’s saying makes any sense.  _ None of this makes sense. _ He had just been with Noct and now he’s here, and when he looks down at himself his clothes are all  _ wrong, _ and the room is all  _ wrong, _ and everything feels  _ wrong. _

‘Sleep,’ the woman says. ‘Gods, why aren’t you responding to commands?’

She makes to move towards him, and as he has each time before, he recoils from her, backing up until he bumps into the wall.

Even that sensation is strange, and he can’t quite pinpoint why. It feels like his entire body is hyper-aware, like even the brush of his shirt against him is way more sensitive than it should be. His chest feels tight, like the shirt is suffocating him, and when he turns his attention to it there’s the strangest feeling there — a steady rise and fall, like his torso is expanding and contracting.

When he becomes aware of it, it stops; he realises dimly that he’s seen Noct do this, that it’s  _ breathing _ and that it’s what every person does, but he can’t remember  _ how _ and— 

‘Oh, Six above,’ the woman exclaims.

She reaches out and takes his wrist; the feeling of tightness in his chest, of being  _ trapped, _ is so overpowering that he can do little to stop her as she leads him to the bed and sits him down on the edge of it.

‘Breathe,’ she says sharply. ‘You need to breathe.’

When her words don’t seem to have the intended impact, he watches her glance fitfully around, then grab a small black device with a screen on it, tapping hurriedly at it with the pad of her index finger.

It’s the last thing he sees.

* * *

He wakes up on the bed, his head resting on a pillow. It’s soft, and it fills his nose and mouth with something sweet and pleasant.

He realises, with a jolt of relief, that he’s breathing again. That’s a good start.

Prompto pushes himself up, looking around the room, and finds the woman sitting on a chair nearby. She’s changed her clothes to something dark and severe, which makes her seem colder, somehow.

Her face is drawn — a look he has seen on Ignis’s face a lot over the years — and as she watches him, he realises the expression she wears is one of  _ worry. _

‘You don’t need to be afraid,’ she says. ‘Can you tell me your name?’

He blinks, and that sensation, too, seems so pointedly  _ new _ that he wonders why he never noticed it before.

‘Prompto,’ he replies quietly. ‘I’m Prompto.’

She nods. She has that device in her hands again; she casts a glance down towards it and swipes her finger across the screen.

‘Prompto,’ she says. ‘My name is Therasia. Do you know where you are?’

Silently, Prompto shakes her head.

There’s a sigh from her, and he wonders if he’s done something wrong. She seems disappointed, somehow, and he doesn’t even know why.

‘Prompto,’ she says. Her voice is more gentle now as she leans close and places a hand on his wrist. ‘Can you tell me the last thing you remember before you saw me?’

He runs through it, and it’s like he’s processing things too slowly. Like he should have it all there in the blink of an eye, but he has to wade through his thoughts, starting a moment earlier and working his way back, piecing it all together.

It makes his head hurt.

‘I was… I was with him,’ he murmurs, closing his eyes as the image of Noct’s face crosses his mind. ‘In my room.’

‘ _ Him, _ ’ she echoes. ‘This… Noct?’

He’s about to nod when something tugs at the back of his awareness — something said to him a long, long time ago, when he first came to know Noctis.  _ Don’t talk about the prince: to anyone, ever, for any reason. _

It hadn’t been a difficult instruction to follow; privacy was paramount to the royal family, and he cared about Noct too much to divulge his friend’s secrets. On the rare occasions when he had almost slipped, it had been like his voice had caught in his throat before he could get the words out.

He doesn’t feel it now, but there’s an unsettling feeling in his gut. He doesn’t know this woman at all — this could all be some ploy to harm Noct, somehow.

‘Where is this place?’ he asks instead. ‘I don’t recognise the skyline.’

Therasia narrows her eyes just slightly — it’s almost impossible to spot. Slowly, she lets go of his wrist and leans back in her seat, folding an arm across her front.

‘Gralea,’ she says. ‘Do you know where that is?’

Prompto pauses to run the information over. Again, s slow to come to him as he sifts through conversations and things he’s picked up over the years. What he remembers is fragmented; it doesn’t come easily.

‘Niflheim,’ he says slowly. ‘Gralea’s in… in Niflheim.’

She nods.

‘I know you’re very confused right now, but I need to ask one last question.’

There’s something in her tone that he doesn’t like, something that makes that feeling come back in his stomach. It’s like something is festering there, and he doesn’t know how to get rid of it.

‘Okay,’ he says.

She licks her lips, and he catches the way her eyes shift uncomfortable away from his own. She seems to hold the device in her grasp to her chest as though concealing its contents from him.

‘Prompto,’ she says. ‘Do you know what you are?’

There’s a stillness in the room as her words fall between them. He tries to read her face to see if there’s some sort of joke that he doesn’t understand, but her expression is neutral — closed off from him.

‘I’m… sorry,’ he says haltingly. ‘I don’t understand.’

Her eyes flick back to his, and there’s something there that he doesn’t quite recognise. Before he has time to try to understand it, she rises to her feet.

‘I’m going to put you to sleep,’ she says, ‘unless you have something else you want to tell me in the meantime.’

‘Wait—’ he blurts.

He’s stalling for time — time to think, time to figure things out, time to decide whether he can trust her or not. He’s not even  _ tired;  _ he doesn’t  _ want _ to sleep. As he’s struggling to come up with an excuse, he feels a pang in his stomach, like a sharp pain. When he grips a hand to it, a strange sound issues from under his touch: a high-pitched little growl.

‘Of course,’ Therasia says, frowning. ‘You get hungry, just like us.’

She sighs and folds up her device, setting it down on the stand beside the bed.

‘Come on,’ she says. ‘I’ll get you something to eat.’

* * *

Prompto has eaten before. He’s sat with Noct during meals; he’s shared cups of coffee with Ignis. He’s  _ sure _ he’s eaten before, yet somehow as he takes a bite of the tortilla wrap Therasia scrambled up for him, it’s like nothing he’s ever experienced before.

He feels it on his tongue first: the slight tingle, the spicy kick. He works his jaw up and down to chew like he always does, yet it takes more coordination than usual and he almost chokes on it as he swallows. Then he feels it — feels it moving down inside his chest, his stomach emitting another strange growl in response to the arrival of food.

It’s strange, but something compels him to take another bite. After this one, he decides he likes it.

Therasia watches him for a while with restrained amusement, her pale blue eyes lighting up. When she turns away, she moves to her refrigerator and grabs a can of soda from the fridge, setting it down in front of him.

He reaches for it and tries to pop the tab like he always does, but his fingers seem awkward and foreign and he can’t quite manage.

‘Here,’ Therasia says, her voice soft and patient. ‘Like this.’

She positions his hands for him, one holding the can and the other poised over the top. She curls his index finger against the tab until the edge of his nail is beneath it, then pulls her hands away.

‘Go on,’ she says. ‘Try it.’

It takes a little effort, but it works first try — and he can see a smile warm her lips in a brief, unguarded moment before she realises he’s watching her.

‘I need to make a phone call,’ she says. ‘Stay right here.’

He nods. He’s more than happy to stick to his stool at the little island in her kitchen if it means he gets to eat more of this wonderful food.

She already has her phone out of her pocket as she steps out of the kitchen; she pulls the screen door shut and he can hear the sharp points of her high heels clicking across the floor as she goes.

Therasia had asked him to remain where he was, but she said nothing about not looking around his surroundings, and he delights in taking in the fine woodwork of the cupboards, the granite countertops, the shiny, ultra-modern appliances. The kitchen in Noct’s quarters — seldom used, of course — had been nothing like this, and he relishes the chance to look at Therasia’s in vivid colour and incredible detail.

He still doesn’t know what caused him to wake up and see with new eyes; doesn’t understand why everything seems so much more  _ real  _ and present. Even his own skin, paler than he remembers, is covered in a fine dusting of freckles that he has never seen there before.

Soon, he realises that Therasia has been gone a long while. He knows she told him to stay where he was, and he’s never been one to question doing what he’s told — but he feels the strangest urge to disobey her. Like he  _ should _ stay here, but he could just… not listen.

He’s pushing himself up from his seat, hands on the countertop, when he freezes. Is he really going to do this? If Noct or Ignis — or even Gladiolus, now that he thinks about him — had told him to wait, he would never even think of going against their wishes. If Therasia asked him to stay there, she must have a good reason.

After a beat, he slips away from the stool and heads for the screen door.

It slides open with barely any noise, moving on well-oiled tracks. He’s wearing socks, so his feet are almost silent as he makes his way out of the room.

The kitchen connects to a living room with a spacious floor plan, decorated in a minimalist style. He can’t help but notice there’s no mess anywhere he looks — no mail open on the coffee table, no shoes lying on the floor.

He moves to the shelves lining the wall to either side of the recess where the TV hangs; glances over the impressive array of books and tasteful ornaments there. Titles jump out at him —  _ Emergence: A Treatise on Artificial Intelligence _ ;  _ The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind _ . None of them are familiar to him.

There are photographs on one of the shelves, meticulously placed: Therasia shielding her eyes from the sun as she leans against a railing with a view of dusty mountains and the ocean in the distance beyond; a scenic shot of a lake surrounded by forest; Therasia when she was younger, her arms thrown around a young man with blonde hair and freckles, his eyes scrunched up as a broad grin lights up his face.

Prompto steps away from the shelves and heads for the window which takes up much of one side of the room, with a sliding door in the centre of it. Outside is a balcony with a glass barrier, overlooking the city; it’s dark now, much later than it was when he had first come to awareness in Therasia’s room, and all he can pick out of the skyline is the glimmering lights of skyscrapers for miles around.

He’s moving toward the handle of the door when he hears Therasia’s voice in another room, loud and impatient, and he can’t help but cock his head toward the sound of it.

She’s having an argument, he thinks, although he can’t quite make out the words. Before he even realises what he’s doing, he pads across the living room to get closer to the sound, following it down a hallway toward her bedroom.

Therasia is pacing about inside, her heels clicking as she goes; she’s silent now as he assumes she listens to whoever’s on the other end of the line. He knows he shouldn’t eavesdrop — had always tuned out Noct’s words whenever he had been on the phone — but he can’t quite seem to help his curiosity.

‘So are you going to help or not?’ Therasia snaps. ‘It’s a simple question.’

He moves closer to the door, enough that he can press his ear to it to listen. He can hear the faint, tinny sound of a man’s voice issuing from the earpiece of the phone, but it’s faint.

‘I understand that, Lowe,’ Therasia says. ‘You think I don’t know I’m putting you in a tight spot here? If I could find somebody else, I would — but there  _ is _ no one else. If I take it to the techs in Behaviour, they’ll just wipe him.’

Prompto knows he shouldn’t be listening. Whatever they’re talking about, Therasia and this other person on the line, he can’t help but feel like it involves  _ him. _

‘You haven’t seen him,’ she blurts. ‘You don’t know what it’s like. He’s so  _ real _ .’

It feels as though something is moving over Prompto’s skin — a breeze, or a featherlight touch. It makes his flesh prickle in a way that’s unsettling and unfamiliar.

Therasia’s footsteps get closer, and he knows that if he doesn’t move away she’s going to walk through the door and see him, going to get  _ mad _ at him. He turns, looking around urgently, and heads for the nearest door, sliding it open and slipping inside.

The bathroom lights up around him without him ever touching a button; spotlights set into the ceiling above illuminate the marble tiles, the spacious bathtub. He moves to perch on the edge of the bath and sits there silently, catching his breath as it moves irregularly through him.

There’s something in his chest, a pounding feeling. When he moves his hand there he can feel something thudding through his skin from within, as though struggling to break out.

His heartbeat — that must be it. Why has he never noticed it before?

He rises to his feet and hurries to the sink, turning the faucet on full blast. Splashes water onto his face as he’s seen Noct do time and again to cool himself down. It helps, a little; makes the room stop spinning quite so frantically.

There’s a mirror above the sink; at the periphery of his vision he can see movement within its reflection, and when he glances up there’s a stranger looking back at him. Brilliant blonde hair, almost the yellow of a chocobo’s feathers, frames his face. There’s a whole scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, across his cheeks — darker than the ones along his arms.

He recognises the person that stares out at him; the person who lifts their hand to scrub at their face, tugging at their cheeks and hair just as he does his own.

It’s the man from the picture on Therasia’s shelf.


	5. Formalities; Surprises

Noctis lies on his side on the sofa in his quarters at the Citadel. He’s been dozing on and off for hours — brooding over the friendship bracelet in the palm of his hand.

Prompto had seemed so… pleasant. So accommodating. Like even though he was being shut down, he’d only wanted to please everybody around him. His blind faith, his absolute certainty that nobody would ever hurt him, still makes Noctis feel sick.

Prompto had held his hand while Ignis talked him through it, and that smile had never left his faceplate even as the low hum of his inner workings died down to silence.

It still doesn’t feel real, somehow. Like Noctis is expecting to glance up and Prompto will be there, with his dumb wannabe punk clothes and his dumb glowing eyes.

It’s been six hours. Noctis  _ misses _ him.

He sighs and sits up, clutching the bracelet tight in his hand. Ignis will come for him in an hour or so to begin preparation for the birthday festivities that he doesn’t even want to take part in; if he wasn’t absolutely sure that Ignis — and Gladio, and his father, and Clarus, and Cor, and just about  _ everybody _ on the Citadel’s payroll — wouldn’t personally hunt him down and drag him back.

It had been easier when he was younger, when vanishing had caused some consternation among his attendants but had been largely regarded as a quirk of the young prince. This particular birthday is different, what with it being his coming of age, and he’ll be expected to be eloquent and gracious, everything a prince should be.

His stomach roils. He’s not sure if it’s lack of sleep, or nerves over the day’s events. Maybe if he tracks Iggy down, he can mainline some caffeine until he’s ready to face the public.

The Citadel is a different world at this hour. Unlike the late night, when a sleepy stillness befalls the palace, six-thirty is when all of the Citadel’s unsung heroes can be seen bustling about. Staff scurry to their postings, already neatly groomed and presentable in their uniforms in spite of the early hour; guards, fresh-faced, arrive to take over from their weary comrades.

There’s more of a presence today, as well, as last-minute preparations are put in place for the coming of age ceremony. He has to duck around people rushing this way and that, who don’t seem to notice the bedraggled, sleep-deprived prince out of the finery they probably expect to see him in.

Ignis keeps quarters in the Citadel; they’re not far from Noctis’s, although they’re farther than he’d like — down a floor and around on the far wing. Noctis can feel his eyes prickling from the light streaming through the many windows that run along the corridors, and from the glittering chandeliers and sconces hanging all around.

He still has the bracelet in the palm of his hand as he goes, thumbing over the beads absentmindedly. It’s only once he turns down Ignis’s hallway that he stuffs it into his pocket.

He doesn’t knock on his way into Iggy’s quarters. Never does — a bad habit that he picked up when he had still lived at the Citadel, and just never quite shook even now that they have apartments in the city proper. It’s a rare day when they both use their official accommodations, however, and he doesn’t much think Iggy minds.

His advisor’s quarters are substantially more modest than his own: a bedroom, a bathroom, a living area and a study. When he sees the curtains have yet to be opened he assumes that somehow — shockingly — Ignis is still asleep, but then he spots a light shining under the gap of the study door.

The place is pristine. He doesn’t have to step around clutter like in his own quarters; even the furniture is sparse. Noctis makes it across the soft carpet of the floor, grabs the handle of the study, and pushes it open.

Ignis is at his desk, sleeping; his head is twisted awkwardly on the surface amid a pile of papers, and even though the emeralite lamp casts its glow directly onto his face, he seems undisturbed in his slumber. Whatever he was working on prior to drifting off, Noctis can’t quite seem to make sense of it — from this angle, it looks like mechanical drawings. Schematics, maybe.

‘Iggy,’ he murmurs, as he stands at the edge of the desk. When his friend doesn’t stir, he leans across and gently shakes Ignis’s shoulder.

It might be comical, really, just how dramatically Ignis startles awake — if it weren’t for the dark circles under his eyes. Noctis wonders just how long he’s been here at his desk; if he never went to bed at all.

‘Noct?’ the advisor slurs, looking at him blearily.

His hands go to his face first, righting his glasses on his nose, and then as he starts to come to his senses he sits upright and scrabbles at the pages scattered around him, gathering them into a haphazard bundle and stuffing them into the top drawer of his desk.

‘Whatcha workin’ on, Specs?’ Noctis asks curiously. He’s never seen Ignis so secretive.

Ignis blinks and, once he seems happy that everything is away, clears his throat delicately.

‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘A pet project. What time is it?’

Noctis slips his phone from his pocket.

‘Six-thirty-eight,’ he says. ‘Have you been in here all night?’

He waits for an answer from Ignis as he stands up and neatly pushes his chair back into place. As Noctis suspected, his clothes are still the same ones from yesterday — and from their crumpled state he’d very much guess Iggy slept in them.

‘I meant to come for you at half past,’ Ignis says. He looks a little annoyed with himself. ‘I must have forgotten to set an alarm.’

Noctis shrugs.

‘S’all good. We still got time.’

He follows Ignis out of the study, and lingers by the door out onto the hallway. Ignis looks like he’s of two minds, torn between everything that has to be done to prepare for the day; it’s unusual to see him so flustered.

‘Go shower,’ Noctis says. ‘I just came for coffee.’

* * *

When Noctis peers out of the window onto the plaza outside the Citadel, he can see spectators gathered en masse. There’s the press, too — at least, those journalists who haven’t already found some means of blagging their way into the ceremony itself — and he’s already dreading the glint of camera lenses and the incessant questions from hacks desperate to get a candid word from the notoriously elusive prince.

He sighs. Feels under the starched confines of his sleeve for the friendship bracelet where it’s hidden on his wrist.

It’s a spin on what counts as a  _ uniform _ as far as Lucian official business goes; whenever the Crownguard gather, or the King can be seen dealing with his subjects, or the council members meet, they all wear their own variant on the garb.

His is adorned with red finishes here and there to offset the black: red detailing on the buttons, red lining inside the jacket, red soles on his shoes. Ignis and Gladiolus, when they appear, are decked out in uniforms with a matching colour scheme.

‘You already been to hair ‘n makeup?’ Gladio drawls. ‘The circles under your eyes have got circles under ‘em.’

Noctis shoots him a withering glance. He knows he probably looks like hell — barely catching a wink of sleep will do that to you — but that doesn’t mean he wants to think about it.

‘Don’t tell me you couldn’t sleep,’ Gladio says. ‘You been preparing for this for, what, two months?’

‘Three,’ Ignis supplies. ‘We can’t all have the perpetual state of slapdash readiness that seems to come to  _ you _ so easily, Gladiolus.’

This sort of good-natured bickering is par for the course between Noctis’s two closest retainers, but he realises there’s nothing good-natured about Ignis’s jibe when he glances up at his friend’s face. He looks just as weary as Noctis feels, and although sleep-deprived and caffeinated is his default mode, he seems more than a little rough around the edges.

‘Forget I asked,’ Gladiolus mutters, folding his arms across his chest.

An attendant finds them before long to bring them to the proceedings. First on the itinerary is the throne room, where the ceremony will take place; after that Noctis will attend the press. He’s not sure which he’s more anxious about as they walk the long, polished hallways of the Citadel.

He knows that if Prompto were here, he’d have some witty quip to take his mind off things. He’d probably make some joke about the worst possible thing that could happen —  _ ‘So long as you don’t bend over and split your pants, you’ll be fine!’ _

As soon as Prompto drifts into Noctis’s head, he tries to push him back out. All that’s left of Prompto — after Ignis took care of wiping the drive, lest anybody try to use it to glean confidential information about the crown — is a useless clockwork doll. A shell.

He scrubs at his face as he goes and Ignis intones that he should be careful not to mess up the stylists’ hard work. He readies bitter retort, but then they’re at the door and the attendant’s ushering them through.

His father — Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII, King of Lucis — is already seated at the throne when they enter. By Noctis’s estimation, the last time they saw each other face to face was at the dress rehearsal for the ceremony. That was over a week ago.

Noctis halts at the base of the stairs leading up to the throne and bows, as is customary. To either side of him, Gladiolus and Ignis do the same.

‘My son,’ Regis says. ‘Today is a momentous day: your twentieth birthday. The day you officially become a man.’

Noctis tries to stand to attention as his father rises to his feet and descends the stairs. He’s already chafing from the formality of it all — and the events of the night before still weigh so heavily on his shoulders.

* * *

It’s bad enough that the ceremony itself endured for nearly two hours, with speeches and pledges aplenty. Even Gladio and Ignis had a few words to say, formally renewing their vows to serve the prince — if it hadn’t been for the yawn Ignis had barely stifled midway through his own, he would have been the picture of professionalism.

The day’s festivities aren’t over yet, however, and Noctis still has to brave the yearly public address. He’ll be expected to talk about his coming of age: his plans for the year, how he intends to support the throne now that he’s a full-fledged adult. He’ll have more duties now, of course. It all sounds so much like hard work.

He’s glad to have the others at his side, at least, as he exits through the great doors of the Citadel, his father already having gone ahead.

There’s an even larger crowd gathered than usual to witness his address, but Noctis can’t help but notice that the road around the plaza has been cordoned off. Parked at the bottom of the stairs, guarded by two Kingsglaives standing sentinel, is a shiny black car.

It isn’t until he sees Regis stop by the car, resting his weight on his cane and turning to regard his son with a youthful and mischievous smile, that Noctis understands.

‘Is this for me?’ he asks, gaping in amazement.

Regis opens the front door and beckons him inside; there’s probably some attendant whose job it should be to do so, but the personal touch makes Noctis’s heart ache.

‘The Star of Lucis,’ Regis pronounces. ‘Custom-built just for you.’

It doesn’t make up for Prompto — he might have been an android, but he was so much more than a  _ thing _ for all those years — but Noctis doesn’t complain as he moves to the car and slips into the driver’s seat, testing his grip on the steering wheel.

The interior is beautiful — sleek white leather seats, a dazzling dashboard. He takes a while to get comfortable, settling himself into the grooves of the seat, and looks up at his father.

‘This is amazing,’ he says. ‘Thank you, Dad.’

There’s another pang as his father looks at him proudly. A moment later, Regis is leaning in close and dropping his voice low.

‘I’m certain that after the ceremony you’ve just endured, the last thing you want is to speak to the press,’ he says, his eyes twinkling. ‘I’m afraid I must remind you of the importance of tradition, and that I can’t condone it should you decide to start your engine and drive away before the hacks manage to sink their claws into you.’

Noctis must look at Regis blankly for about a full minute before it dawns on him just what his father’s getting at. When it finally, graciously falls into place, he nods his head and turns the key in the ignition. Once Regis has stepped out of the way, he reaches over and grabs the door, yanking it shut.

The passenger side pops open; he expects it to be somebody from the Kingsglaive attempting to stop him, but it’s Gladiolus. Gladio’s grinning like crazy as he settles into the passenger seat and shuts the door after him.

‘Buckle up, Your Highness,’ he says, pulling on his safety belt. ‘Let’s get outta here.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured it was about time that something nice happen to one of our boys. The car might not make up for Prompto, but at least it's a distraction.


	6. Source Code

The man in front of Prompto is taller than him by a few inches, although he hunches his shoulders ever so slightly where he stands, giving him the impression of someone shorter. He wears a pair of glasses that he removes from time to time, diligently cleaning the lenses as though to give himself time to think.

He’s doing so now, as Prompto stands in front of him and waits.

‘You’re sure it won’t respond to verbal commands?’ the man says, carefully sliding his glasses back onto his face.

Therasia sighs. She has a cigarette poised between the tips of her fingers; the trail of smoke arcs around her and drifts across the room. It tickles Prompto’s throat; makes him want to cough to clear it.

‘I wouldn’t be  _ here _ if I hadn’t tried everything, Lowe,’ the woman says. There’s a bite of impatience in her voice. ‘I’m risking my neck as much as yours by bringing him here.’

Lowe lifts a hand; in his grasp is what appears to be a pen. He clicks a button on it and a light emerges from the end, which he flashes first into Prompto’s right eye, then his left, then turns the light off.

‘Physically, there’s nothing wrong with it,’ Lowe says. ‘At least, as far as I can tell. Motor, verbal and eye response are normal. It certainly  _ understands _ us.’

Prompto swallows. Lowe keeps saying that:  _ it. _ It makes his stomach squirm.

‘I’d be able to help you more if you would give me access to the database,’ the man says.

Behind his glasses, he flashes his dark brown eyes — almost black — over at Therasia.

‘And I’d be out of a job come Monday,’ Therasia retorts.

Prompto watches him throw his eyes heavenward. When he looks back, Prompto quickly looks away so that their glances don’t meet.

‘It’s sweating,’ Lowe remarks. He looks down at the device in his hands — the screen is filled with information that Prompto doesn’t understand. ‘Elevated heart rate and respiration. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was nervous.’

‘He  _ is,’ _ Therasia says with an impatient sigh. ‘He’s programmed for it. At least his emotional response is working — it’s everything else that seems to be going wrong.’

‘There’s nothing to indicate anything went wrong with the download,’ Lowe says. ‘The installation completed correctly. Although… Hold on.’

He lowers his head once more to study the readout in his hand. The light hanging from the ceiling reflects off his forehead, where his tightly coiled black hair has begun to recede. Prompto thinks he looks nervous, too: the furrow in his brow, the lines on his forehead. No, not nervous — confused.

‘All of the firmware updates came from the same server,’ he says. ‘The personality download came from somewhere different.’

‘What?’ 

Therasia stubs out her cigarette in an ashtray on a nearby desk before striding over. She looks confused, too.

‘Maybe that’s normal,’ she says, as Lowe shows her the screen. ‘We have multiple servers. It could have come from one of those.’

The man shakes his head. He has a look on his face like he’s just uncovered a puzzle that needs to be solved; his eyes are sparkling.

‘Those are for redundancy,’ he says. ‘Besides — I don’t think the data originated in Niflheim.’

Therasia all but yanks the device from Lowe’s grasp, her head ducked low to inspect the contents of the screen. Shaking her head, she taps her finger against it.

‘It says here it did,’ she replies. ‘Forty-six, one-oh-one…’

‘Yes,’ Lowe says. ‘That’s a Niflheim IP. But that’s not one of your servers, although the address is close. It’s a proxy.’

Prompto doesn’t like the way Therasia visibly pales, or how her hand comes up to cover her mouth. When he tries to meet her eye, she won’t look at him.

‘What are you saying?’ she murmurs.

‘Best case,’ Lowe says, ‘somebody in Niflheim used a proxy to mask their IP. Worst case, they weren’t even  _ in _ Niflheim.’

* * *

Therasia’s smoking again. Prompto wants to ask her to stop, but he never quite gets the words out.

‘Shouldn’t be too much longer,’ Lowe says.

He’s leaning over his desk, his glasses reflecting the screen in front of him; Prompto can see him scrolling down a black page filled with white text as the sounds of his fingers rushing over the keys fill the room.

‘All right,’ the man says. ‘Looks like it originated in… Lucis.’

‘Lucis?’ Therasia echoes.

She lets her hand drop to her side. Reflexively, Prompto watches the cigarette in case she burns herself, and sees the smoke coil around her hips. From the end of it, a bit of ash tumbles free and falls to the ground.

‘I can’t narrow it down much more than that,’ Lowe says. ‘But, yes. Insomnia, probably, if we’re looking for someone with the tech required to do this.’

_ Insomnia. _ The name comes to Prompto, filling his mind with flashes of images: perfect, straight avenues; cars in shining black; the Citadel, towering over the city like a beacon on the skyline.

Noct. Noct is there — he’s sure of it.

‘The question now,’ Therasia says, tapping her thumb idly on the filter of her cigarette, ‘is  _ who. _ And  _ why.’ _

Lowe pushes off from his desk and raises his hands palms-up in a gesture of resignation.

‘You’ve got me,’ he says. ‘A saboteur, perhaps. Or some cocky grey-hat looking to exploit the system’s vulnerabilities in hopes you’ll hire them. Have you let anybody go recently? Anybody with knowledge of the new line?’

Therasia takes a slow, thoughtful drag of her cigarette. When she’s done, she shakes her head.

‘We’ve had only our oldest and most loyal crew on this project,’ she says. ‘This feels like an outside job.’

‘That may be the case,’ Lowe says. ‘I’m not sure it’s the whole truth, though. Come look.’

Therasia crosses the room. Prompto edges a little closer, craning his head so that he can look at the screen as Lowe brings up a full-size version of the display from Therasia’s device, but he can’t see from where he stands.

‘I did a little digging around in its code,’ Lowe says. ‘Something seemed strange about it — incomplete, I suppose. I checked it against other models Daedalus has put out over the years, and it matches up with the oh-two-oh-fours.’

Prompto takes another step and stands up on tiptoes. All that shows up on the screen is more lines of seemingly meaningless text, but then Lowe swipes a finger across the screen and an image pops up: some sort of mechanical creature with a doll-like faceplate, a smile affixed in place.

‘The QuickSilvers?’ Therasia says.

Lowe nods; Prompto can just see the knowing smile on his lips as he turns to look at her.

‘I’m willing to bet anything that that’s where it got its name from — poorly cobbled together from the old tongue, of course. Do you know what Promptus translates to?’

Prompto can see Therasia’s brow furrow as she thinks. The word comes to him before she ever opens her mouth.

‘Quick,’ she says. Her eyes open wide, like she’s come to an epiphany.

‘Yes,’ Lowe replies. He turns to Prompto, addressing him next: ‘Did you have another name? A nickname, perhaps?’

Prompto knows what he means: his last name. The name that his… his  _ parents _ must have had before him. He feels the muscles in his forehead contort themselves into a frown; how come he’s never thought about this before?

‘A- Argentum,’ he says. ‘My last name is Argentum.’

Beside Lowe, Therasia draws in a sharp breath.

‘Silver,’ she says.

Prompto feels his skin prickle. It’s like static rolling across it; when he looks down, the blonde hairs there, almost invisible, stand up on end.

Timidly, he swallows and opens his mouth.

‘Excuse me,’ he says. His voice comes out paper-thin. ‘Can someone please explain what’s going on?’

* * *

A stony silence has settled over the interior of the car ever since Prompto climbed in. Every now and then, he catches Therasia watching him in the rearview mirror, but whenever he lifts his eyes to meet hers, she glances away.

They hadn’t explained it to him — any of it. Instead they had ask him more and more questions, so many it had felt as though his head would explode. He had answered as best he could, but when Lowe had asked if he remembered anything before he woke up in Therasia’s apartment, he had said no.

Therasia knows it’s a lie; she must remember the first thing he said to her. She knows he said the name  _ Noct. _ She knows he remembers the life he had before, even if it’s only coming to him in fragments.

She doesn’t speak as she checks in at the security booth in the entrance to the underground parking at her apartment block. Just waves some form of identification at the guard, and keeps her gaze straight ahead as she drives onward.

When they’re in her apartment, she shows him to the bedroom and gestures to a set of drawers.

‘The bottom two are yours,’ she says. ‘You should change into something to sleep in.’

She turns to go, but before she can get very far he stumbles forward and puts out a hand to stop her.

‘Please,’ he says. ‘I don’t understand what’s happening.’

He can see the conflict on her face as she turns back to him. He thinks she might just leave anyway, but instead she nods her head toward the doorway.

‘Come on,’ she says. ‘I’ll make you hot chocolate.’

_ Noct calls it cocoa, _ he thinks, as she sets the mug down in front of him on the countertop ten minutes later.

He knows he’s had it with Noct before, but as he tastes that first sip it’s like nothing he remembers. It’s hot and sweet, and there’s a creaminess to it, a rich essence that he can’t quite put his finger on.

‘I’ll answer any questions you have,’ Therasia says, ‘within reason. But first I need you to be honest with me.’

She has her hands wrapped around a mug of her own. The smell that drifts from it is different than the one from his own — bitter, but enticing.

‘Okay,’ he says.

‘Why did you lie?’ she asks. ‘When Lowe asked what you remembered, you said nothing. Why didn’t you tell him?’

Prompto swallows the lump in his throat. Is this the part where he gets in trouble.

‘I… I don’t know him,’ he says quietly. ‘I didn’t know if I could trust him.’

Therasia blinks. She watches him for a long moment, then nods as though satisfied.

‘You’ve answered my question,’ she says, slipping one of her hands free of her mug to gesture for him to continue. ‘Your turn.’

There are almost too many to pick from, Prompto realises, as he sifts through everything that’s been bursting into his mind over the past two hours or more. It doesn’t come to him quickly and methodically like it used to; it all seeps in at the edges of his thoughts, clamouring to be heard, speaking in the voice that before today had never been his own.

‘Who’s the man in the photograph?’ he says finally. It seems as good a place to start as any. ‘The one on the shelf in the living room.’

Therasia sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. She then sweeps her hair out of her face, and rests her chin in her hand.

‘His name was Verstael,’ she says. ‘We knew each other a long, long time ago.’

‘Did you love him?’ Prompto asks.

She seems surprised at this; her eyes go wide.

‘Yes,’ she says.

‘Am I his son?’

At this, Therasia spits out a bark of laughter that lights her face up like the sun. Her skin crinkles at the corners of her eyes, the lines standing out around her mouth; she’s beautiful when she smiles.

‘Oh, dear,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘No, Prompto. You’re not his son.’

He shrugs his shoulders. 

‘So… why do I look like him, then?’ he asks. 

Therasia sighs and scrubs her face. With the laughter gone from her features, she looks older — weary.

‘All humans are born from a womb, Prompto,’ she says. ‘A mother. But you don’t have a mother.’

Prompto blinks at her. He wants to protest — to argue that he  _ must _ have a mother,  _ must _ have parents — but it feels like everything he knows is being torn away from him.

When he tries to think of his parents, of the people who would have raised and clothed and fed him, all that comes to him is a blank. He’s just… never thought about it before.

‘If humans have mothers,’ Prompto says, ‘and I don’t have one… What am  _ I?’ _

She reaches across the countertop to him and takes his hand. Her fingers warm to the touch; when he looks down, he sees that her skin is weathered with age — she has the hands of someone who never lets them go to waste.

‘You’re an android,’ Therasia says. ‘A synthetic human. Made to look, act and speak just like a human, only better.’

There’s a horrible feeling in the pit of Prompto’s stomach, like a bunch of writhing eels have taken up residence there. As if that weren’t bad enough, there’s a bitter taste in the back of his throat. He thinks — he’s not positive, but he’s reasonably sure — that he’s going to throw up.

‘An android?’ Prompto echoes.

Therasia nods.

‘That’s right,’ she says. ‘You were made, Prompto — on a production line. By the company I own.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/mooglemallow)


	7. Friends In Strange Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? An update?? I hope it was worth the wait!
> 
> It's time to get the ball rolling...

Prompto can still remember the taste of the cocoa that day; how the sweetness had turned bitter on his tongue as Therasia had stripped away his illusions, one by one.

_ You were made, Prompto. On a production line. _

Prompto knows all about production lines; it’s like a conveyer belt, where all these little parts are added and refined and put together. They make games consoles on production lines, he’s pretty sure.

Games consoles, and cars, and little plastic dolls with painted-on faces. And  _ him. _

He looks at himself in the mirror and presses a finger to his cheek, pulling at the skin. The flesh droops beneath his eye, and he can see the pink of his inner eyelid — the little crisscross network of blood vessels on his eyeball. He doesn’t remember if it was always like that, before he woke up here; it strikes him that he never thought to look before.

He sighs and pushes off from the sink. Therasia will be home in a few hours; he just has to amuse himself until then.

She’s made him comfortable here, of course — offered up her home to him as if it were his own. But he knows that any feelings of freedom are false. Knows that he can never leave without her. Since that night when she brought him to see Lowe, he hasn’t set foot outside.

There’s a message waiting for him on the terminal when he returns to the study.

_ 7: Are you around? I would like to talk if you have the time. _

He casts a quick glance out into the hallway before leaving the door open a little and sitting down to type up a response.

_ P: I still have a couple hours. whats up? _

He tabs over to the browser client while he waits for a reply. Even though he deletes his history every time he steps away from the terminal, he knows all of the sites off by heart — he drums the first of them in by memory, and scrolls down the familiar white-on-black page to the threads he’s been reading for weeks now.

_ 7: Have you put any more thought into my suggestion? _

Reflexively, Prompto winces. This 7 he’s been talking to — they’ve never exchanged names, for fear of being outed — has been pushing for weeks now, ever since they first made contact. Every time Prompto tries to change the subject, 7 just keeps on bringing it back up.

_ P: dude, I told you. she trusts me. if she catches me trying to leave, I lose that trust. _

The response and quick and to the point.

_ 7: That isn’t trust. That’s imprisonment. _

Prompto sighs and buries his face in his hands. He should’ve known better than to expect anything less from somebody he met on a forum with the subtitle  _ No Gods, No Masters. _

He knows he could get into a lot of trouble just for talking to someone about these things, let alone entertaining the idea of walking out of Therasia’s apartment when she expressly asked him not to. He ignores the niggling feeling that maybe 7 is right — that any freedom which keeps him confined indoors is no freedom at all — and reminds himself that it’s for his own safety.

If anybody were to discover what he is — that his code was wrongly downloaded into this body from some unknown source — he doubts he’d have freedom of  _ any _ kind any more.

_ P: I appreciate you looking out for me. seriously. but everything’s fine. she treats me well. she’s  _ nice.

He tabs back over to the forum, but he can barely see the text as he scrolls past thread titles. 7’s words, for all his efforts at ignoring them, have settled in his skull. Maybe Therasia  _ is _ just looking out for him, but then what? How long before she decides to wipe his personality and replace it with the one this body  _ should have _ had?

No. He needs to stop thinking like this. She’s been nothing but kind to him; she wants to  _ help _ him.

_ 7: And what about your friend? The one you left behind in your ‘old life’? Don’t you want to find him again? _

It’s like somebody’s flipped a switch and Prompto finds himself frozen in place, hands hovering over the keys of the terminal. Of course he’s thought about it — but as more and more of that last night at the Citadel comes back to him, he knows that Noct said goodbye because he knew they’d never see each other again.

Noct didn’t want him around any more; doesn’t want him back.

_ P: Even if he wanted to see me again, what’s the point? He lives thousands of miles away. I can’t even leave this apartment. _

_ 7: There are ways, P. People who would help you. You just need to ask. _

Prompto stares at the screen until the words start to fade into the background. What if 7 is right? What if he  _ could _ find Noct?

Idly, he chews at his thumbnail — catches himself and stops, letting his hand drop. He doesn’t know where he picked up that habit, but he doesn’t ever remember doing it  _ before. _

He’s thinking up some excuse to leave when another message comes in from 7, and it’s enough to make him pause.

_ 7: We could meet. Maybe that would make it easier to trust me. _

Prompto’s breath comes out in an involuntary burst. If they met — if he could actually meet somebody  _ like him _ — it feels like there’d be no going back. Like he couldn’t just let Therasia lock him away in the apartment any more; like everything would change.

He doesn’t want things to change, not now. Not while he’s still figuring himself out, figuring the world out. He doesn’t want to do the things he’s seen the other ‘droids talking about on the forum, cooking up their very own brand of insurrection.

_ P: I’m sorry. I’ve gotta go. catch you later. _

* * *

Therasia notices something is wrong when she gets home; even though she’s frequently stressed when she walks through the door, she  _ always _ notices.

Maybe it’s because he’s based on somebody she once knew so well; maybe there’s still a part of Verstael within him, underneath the code that makes him  _ Prompto. _

‘Hot chocolate?’ she suggests, as she sets her purse down on the coffee table near where he sits. ‘Just let me wash up first.’

He knows that cocoa usually encompasses talking about what’s on his mind, and he’s not so sure that’s something he wants to do. He can’t tell Therasia about his conversation with 7, after all — no matter how good she might have been to him, there’s so much that he has to keep from her.

Prompto wonders, sometimes, just how much she’s keeping from  _ him. _

He clears up the kitchen while he waits for her to shower, washing dishes and pots from his dinner. Eating real food — actually getting  _ hungry _ — is still a novelty to him, but after Therasia taught him to throw together a few simple dishes, it’s been a good way of passing the time. His favourite is something she calls  _ mac and cheese. _

He could make the cocoa himself, but it’s not the same as when Therasia does it. He’s tried, of course, even going as far as to add some of the syrup she mixes in, but it always comes out too sickly-sweet, or he scalds the milk, or suffers some minor catastrophe.

She’s quick to return, at least, her damp hair snaking down her back. Her cheeks are still a little flushed from the heat of the shower.

‘Peppermint or hazelnut?’ she asks, as she sets to work.

Prompto mulls it over.

‘Can I try caramel this time?’

Silently, Therasia nods and turns her back to him, bustling about at the stove.

Maybe, in another life, it would have been his mom making him cocoa before bed; his mom letting him share his woes over a steaming cup of the hot drink. He wonders what she would have looked like, this imaginary mother of his — what Verstael’s mother looked like once upon a time.

‘What’s on your mind?’ Therasia asks, setting his drink down in front of him. She’s been overly generous with the marshmallows this time.

Prompto buys himself a moment to think as he sips from his mug. As always, each time a flavour touches his tongue is a new experience; he could taste the same thing a hundred times and each one would be different.

He can’t tell her about 7, that much he knows. But is there any harm in asking if he might be allowed outside, just for a little while?

‘Nothing,’ he says, with a shrug. Carefully, he licks some melted marshmallow from his top lips before he continues. ‘I guess I’m just… starting to feel a little cooped up.’

The change in her body language is subtle — minute. If he weren’t watching for it, he might never have noticed. She seems… tense. Uncomfortable with the implications. Perhaps she feels regret for leaving him home alone all the time?

‘I’m sorry, Prompto,’ she says, sighing. ‘I know it’s not ideal. If there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable, just let me know.’

Prompto stares down into his drink, at the swirling white and pink of the marshmallows as they turn to mush. He asks himself if there’s something he’s missing — something that would make it more livable here, locked away alone. She’s already shown him how to find games on his profile on the terminal, and her holo-TV has thousands of channels to choose from, but the reality of it is that there’s no game, no movie, no electronic distraction that could scratch this particular itch.

Maybe 7 put it into his head; maybe he would have come up with the idea all on his own, eventually. Either way, he wants to get outside.

He knows Therasia won’t agree just like that, though. He needs to figure out a way to earn her trust first.

‘I thought maybe…’ he says, using a fingertip to idly trace a pattern in the foam of his cocoa. ‘I could come with you. When you go out. To the store, or whatever.’

He only stumbles over his words all the more as he sees the shift in Therasia’s body language — steadily growing icy, removed. He can tell, before she ever opens her mouth, that she’s going to say no; he can already feel discomfort welling up within his chest, which he knows to be  _ disappointment. _

‘It’s not safe for you out there,’ she says, tone clipped. ‘You know that.’

‘But if we were together, you could keep an eye on me,’ he protests. ‘We wouldn’t even need to go far, we could just go across the str—’

‘I said no, Prompto.’

There’s a chilling note of finality to her voice; Prompto knows that if he presses her any more, she’ll lose her temper.

Maybe 7 was right. Maybe he  _ is _ a prisoner here.

‘Okay,’ he says meekly. ‘Forget I said anything.’

Tension seems to ease somewhat from Therasia’s shoulders, although it doesn’t dissipate entirely. As Prompto does his best to avoid meeting her eye, he can still see her watching him at the edge of his vision.

* * *

Therasia goes to bed late, as she usually does — and it’s something Prompto can never understand when she’s so early to rise for work each day. It’s still a novelty for him to need sleep, even if his requirements are less than hers, and yet he finds it so hard to rouse himself from bed each morning when she does it without complaint.

He waits long enough that he’s certain she must be asleep and lets himself into the office, and with ears pricked for any sounds that might signal her approach, he sits down at the terminal.

Prompto doesn’t even know if 7 will be online — he knows nothing about his mysterious ally, outside of the fact that they live in Gralea, too. As he types up a hurried message, he hopes he won’t have to wait too long for a response.

_ P: I wanna do it. I wanna meet. _

He knows he should go to bed; should try to shut off his nerves and get some sleep while he can. Waiting around for an answer that might never come won’t do him any good, and it won’t make 7 reply any faster.

And yet he waits nonetheless, resisting the urge to drum his hands on his thighs — some unconscious gesture that he did even before he woke up here — and silently wills the screen to show him what he wants.

It isn’t long before a message arrives; it’s so quick it almost startles him. Is 7  _ always _ online? Have they been waiting for him?

_ 7: Good. I can help you get out. Make sure to take down everything I tell you. _

Prompto’s jittering as he reaches for a pad of paper and a pen and pulls it into his lap. It seems 7 has it all planned out, right down to the finest details. Prompto barely has time to wonder how 7 knows how to disable the electronic lock on Therasia’s front door, so quick are they to give the next instructions.

_ 7: And please, P. This is important. Do not let your master catch you. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/orchardofbones)


	8. Lucky's Neon Emporium

Cars careen down the street as the rain thunders down; Prompto has to dodge away from puddles at the edge of the road as drivers speed through them with little care for who they might splash.

He’s wearing one of Therasia’s hoodies, something oversized even on him, impossibly soft and cosy. He’d picked it out so he could pull the hood low around his face to hide himself from prying eyes, but now in the cold he’s grateful for the comfort it affords him, too.

Prompto’s been in crowded streets before, but it all feels so different with new eyes and ears, new skin to register the impact of strangers knocking into him in their haste. Even the rain itself is a foreign thing: the way it dampens his clothes, making them cling to him; the rich smell it brings out from the dirt.

Back in Insomnia, Noct’d hated the rain. Loved rainy  _ days —  _ perfect for huddling under the covers and playing video games — but hated being outside during crappy weather.

When Prompto sees a young man with dark hair plastered to his head, ducking as he dashes toward shelter, it brings back memories so profound, so tangible, that an ache takes root in Prompto’s stomach and doesn’t budge, no matter how hard he tries.

He’s meeting 7 at an arcade across town, some retro place that somehow hasn’t been forced out of business by the VR joints that have cropped up to replace its kind. Given that Prompto doesn’t know his way around Gralea — barely knew how to navigate Insomnia alone, without somebody guiding the way — he’s got detailed directions from 7 to find his way.

His first stop is the Metro. That, at least, is easy enough to find: a giant  _ M _ hangs in neon above the entrance, and as he makes his way down the rain-slick steps it’s easy enough to blend into the crowd of commuters.

Money had been his first concern; he remembers Noct, Ignis and Gladio all using a combination of physical cash and cards for various expenses, but short of stealing from Therasia he doesn’t have any means of paying his way. 7 had solved that particular problem, buying him a digital day pass for the Metro. He tracks down the ticket machines, and after keying in an account number and confirmation code, the machine spits out a little stub for him with the pass already loaded onto it.

From there, he has to find the right line, which amid the bustle of bodies is a daunting prospect. He’s taller than he remembers being, although still a good foot or more shorter than some of the commuters, so he has to stretch up on the balls of his feet to try to see the signs indicating the lines; when he finds the appropriate one, he slips into the lane of human traffic headed in that direction and allows the crowd to sweep him along.

There are all sorts of people here: adults in suits headed for work; kids in uniforms with backpacks slung over their shoulders. There are people somewhere in the middle, too, around his age: couples holding hands; groups of loud, boisterous young men; solitary individuals wearings earbuds to drown out the noise of the outside world.

When the train arrives at the platform, he steps in between a man with a small baby in a carrier on his back, and a girl with bright pink hair and a dozen pieces of metal inserted into her face. All the seats are already full so he has to stand, and after almost falling over when the train moves for the first time, he follows the example of the passengers around him and grabs one of the handles dangling above his head.

He has to transfer to another line after five stops, which in itself is another feat, what with the crowds of people he has to wade through in order to get there. It’s only once he’s safely on his second — and final — train that he feels he can relax somewhat.

The fear of being caught seems less urgent now. Therasia thinks he’s still safely at home, and as far as anybody knows he’s allowed to be here just like they are. 

A little girl sits on a seat across the car. At first, Prompto thinks she’s all alone — but then he sees she’s holding the hand of whoever stands next to her. He expects it to be a parent, or an older sibling, but when he lifts his glance he finds himself staring into a pair of unnaturally blue eyes set into a mechanical face.

It’s jarring. Even though he’s looked up pictures of androids, he’s never seen one in the flesh, so to speak. There’s something about it that makes him want to look away but keeps him staring all at once; he can’t quite break away from those uncanny blue eyes, the colour of sylleblossoms in bloom.

Those eyes meet his suddenly, and he swiftly turns his gaze in the other direction.

To think that he was  _ like that _ once — that he never even realised what he was — makes his stomach roil.

He’s considerably less at ease for the rest of the journey, and even thought the oppressive feeling lifts somewhat once the android leaves with its human, he can still feel the phantom of its stare on him like an itch under his skin.

He alights, finally, at Tummelt Square. This is a quieter stop — the Metro station is dark and dingy, the tiled walls cracked and grimy. Something about it gives him a bad feeling, and he quickens his pace as he makes his way toward the exit, ignoring the stares of the people he passes.

* * *

Lucky’s Neon Emporium sits between a derelict storefront and an apartment building with a teenage boy sitting on the stoop smoking a cigarette. He watches Prompto suspiciously as he walks by; Prompto unconsciously ducks his head lower, hiding his face in the shadow of his hood.

Lucky’s is quiet, and Prompto’s not sure if that’s to do with the early hour of the day or the crummy location. He’s glad for it, in a way — of the few patrons he finds inside, none of them seem to be the chatty type.

He scans the faces for any sign of 7, not that he has any idea what he’s looking for. An android, he guesses; from what he can tell, everybody here is human. He thinks maybe he’s early, but when he checks the LED clock above the counter in the back, he sees he’s right on time.

_ Huh. _

If he had some money to his name, he could while away the wait on some of the games. They even have  _ Time Jump 3000, _ which he and Noct used to play all the time whenever his friend finished school for the day.

No. Now’s not the time to think about Noct — not when he’d just gotten over the pang from being reminded of him earlier.

Prompto spends some time wandering and looking at the various machines, pretending to size up which one he wants to play. He realises he’s probably suspicious as it is, by virtue of being here and not actually playing anything. Maybe he should go wait outside…

As he passes a driving game, he thinks he catches sight of the screen flickering at the edge of his vision. He’s gone a few steps past it before it registers with him and he turns back, frowning at the display. It looks normal now — he must have imagined it.

When he turns to keep walking, he sees it again, and this time he  _ knows _ it’s for real.

It blinks on and off twice while he’s watching it, then the screen to the left does the same. He’s riddling it out when the screen after that one flickers, too. It’s a signal, he thinks. Leading him somewhere.

With a glance around to make sure that nobody’s watching him, he sets off to the left. As he passes each game, the one next to it flickers as though to tell him to keep going. They lead him all the way to the far corner of the arcade, then along the back wall; his path ends at an archway with a bead curtain, with a big sign next to it bearing the words ‘18+ ONLY’.

He frowns and looks around, not entirely sure where to go from here — the last machine to the right of the door blinks on and off a few more times, as if to reassure him he’s in the right place.

When he moves to the archway, he shoots a glance at the guy behind the counter, who gives him the most cursory of looks before waving him through.

A short hallway leads him to another bead curtain, beyond which is a small room, dimly lit with a sultry pink glow. There are more arcade games in here, but they’re nothing like any of the stuff Prompto has ever played — there are titles like  _ Waifu Simulator _ and  _ Hot for Teacher, _ and the artwork printed on the machines is enough to make heat rush to his cheeks. The place is a cacophony of sound, the warring music and noises from each machine competing for his attention.

He’s alone in here, at least, although he’s still not sure why he was led to such a place — if he was even led at all.

‘I’m losing it,’ he mutters, turning back toward the exit.

He takes two strides before the room plunges into darkness, a deafening silence falling as the games shut off all at once. In the time it takes for his eyes to adjust, he realises there’s a source of light in the room, somewhere behind him; there’s still one game powered up, sitting alone in a far corner.

At the back of his neck, beneath his hood, his skin prickles unpleasantly.

Despite his unease, there’s only one thing left to do. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and heads forward.

This game is just as X-rated as any of the others, with a picture of an anime girl on the front, her breasts practically bursting out of her shirt. The screen is bright pink with a moving motif on the background of the same anime girl jumping in excitement. Across the top of the display is the title  _ 7 Minutes In Heaven; _ beneath, the words  _ Insert Credit(s) _ flash insistently at him.

‘Sorry,’ he mutters, under his breath. ‘Not today.’

He’s about to turn when a flourish rings out from the speakers of the game; the words  _ 1 Credit(s) Inserted! _ appear on the screen before the display changes to a pre-rendered background depicting a party. The music shifts, too, with the canned sounds of a crowd piping through the speakers. After a moment a cursor appears on-screen with the words  _ Please enter name!  _ emblazoned above.

For a long while, he thinks he should just leave. This whole thing is dumb — he came here to meet somebody who’s obviously stood him up, and the game is nothing more than a distraction.

Still — curiosity gets the better of him. Chewing his lip, he steps up to the machine and uses the keyboard to type his name in.

‘P… R… O… M… P… T… O…’ he spells, reading the letters under his breath as he goes.

As soon as he hits  _ Enter, _ the anime girl appears on screen again. She winks and throws up the peace sign at him, the words  _ Hi, Prompto! _ scrolling underneath her.

The display returns to the party; four anime girls come into view, each with a different appearance and body shape, each in different poses intended to depict their personality. At the bottom of the screen, words fill the display.

_ You’re the new exchange student in town. Your roommate invited you to a party to help you settle in. Most of the girls at the party are taken, but there are four who catch your eye. You decide to talk to one of them… _

It takes him a while to realise that the game expects him to choose from each of the girls; after a moment of thought, he picks the one with jaw-length black hair and glasses.

_ She looks shy, and a little annoyed at being interrupted. You decide to tell her your name anyway. _

_ > Girl: Hello, Prompto. _

The cursor blinks back at him, awaiting his response. He feels self-conscious as he returns his fingers to the keys — it’s pretty obvious what sort of a game this is, and it’s definitely not what he came here for — but he begins typing anyway.

He gets as far as  _ Hi, what’s your _ before the cursor vanishes from the screen and the girl is talking again, words appearing in the speech bubble below her.

_ > Girl: I’m sorry about all the cloak and dagger. I didn’t know how else to get you here. _

Prompto blinks at the screen. The words seem out of place; the cursor is gone, so he has no way of responding.

_ > Girl: I know this might be a bit strange for you. I wanted to explain sooner, but I was afraid you wouldn’t come if you knew. _

‘What the…’ 

He looks around, convinced that somebody’s screwing around with him. He’s still alone. When he turns back to the screen, more words are popping up on the screen.

_ > Girl: Oh, sorry. You’re probably confused. Just a moment. _

As the words appear, the avatar of the girl shifts to depict a pre-set handful of emotions. She’s smiling encouragingly now; when he looks at the speech bubble again, the name attached to it has changed.

_ > 7: Is this better? _

‘Wait,’ he blurts. ‘You’re—’ 

The girl is grinning now, her cheeks a rosy pink.

_ > 7: Yes, Prompto. It’s me. _   
> 7:  _ I’m so glad we can finally meet. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](http://twitter.com/orchardofbones) | [tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/ghostmallovv)


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